The Ladye and the Knight
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: "And... After we save the world, perhaps one day I will ask you to help me find a proper knight. Perhaps." Blackwall takes her hand and bows over it, gracefully turning all the seriousness and awkwardness of the situation into a jest. "Perhaps, m'lady" he says with a smile, "you will find the knight waiting." [a collections of short stories]
1. Rain

_Since the game isn't released yet, the fic contains DAI headcanons. Aside from the walks in the rain and the Herald thing, which I've seen mentioned somewhere in the internets, and it's canon, apparently.  
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_(Also, this is what overdosing Loreena McKennitt's and John Tams' songs can do...)  
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**Rain**

**. . .**

They are recruiting soldiers everywhere they can, some of them so young they are still almost boys, and she turns her head away. She cannot look. They have to save the world, but is the world where children are dragged into wars truly worth saving? She thinks not.

"Cassandra." She turns to the Seeker, waiting obediently at her side. "Eighteen years old. I thought I was clear about it. Eighteen," she repeats wearily.

"I've heard the first time you said that, Herald. And so has everyone else." Cassandra makes a move with her head. "This one is sixteen. But he's from Anderfelds..."

"I don't care," she says, in that kind of quiet voice that usually has people lower their heads and very quickly rethink their opinions. "If he volunteered to provide for his family then send him to help the blacksmith, or... There are hundreds of possibilities, Cassandra. Just not soldiering."

"He's from Anderfelds," Cassandra repeats firmly, but patiently, explaining. "And yes, I offered that. His sixteen-year-old honour would not allow him to accept."

"I will make him accept."

"The Anders are a tough lot," Cassandra muses. "And besides, how old you have to be to become a Warden? I've heard the previous Commander of Ferelden was, what... Seventeen, when he joined? Sixteen?"

"That doesn't mean it was right." She sighs quietly. "Fine. I'll have Blackwall talk to the boy."

"Blackwall's somewhere around the castle." Cassandra crooks a smile, and then gives a chuckle. "Strolling. In the rain. Who would have thought."

"I'll go look for him," she turns and leaves, not returning Cassandra's smile. She cannot stop thinking of the boy, and wondering how many more like him will she encounter before this is over.

. . .

The rain is cold, but still she slips off the hood of her cloak and lets the raindrops wash away her worries. The soft murmur of the rain is soothing, and she feels a little better.

She recalls Cassandra's comment on Blackwall, and her first response is to smile, but the merriment is brief. She wonders what does he want the rain to wash away from his thoughts, or what worries he wants to drown in it.

She finds Blackwall sitting on a pile of stones, leaning against the keep's wall. He's hiding from the rain under an ivy-covered stone arc, and smoking a pipe. There is a distant, pensive look on his face, one she would have never expected to see there.

"Blackwall," she greets him quietly.

He nods to her, and only then notices her wet hair, as if it took him some effort to push his musings away. "Lass, what in Thedas are you doing? Come here." He moves, and pats a dry spot where he has been sitting a moment ago.

She sits on the stones, which are still warm. He must have been sitting here for quite a while.

"Your hair," he notes.

"It'll dry, eventually. I was looking for you."

"Yes?" He turns to her, offering his full attention. "What is it?"

"I need you to talk with one of the soldiers."

He eyes her carefully. "And it's so important you went to look for me immediately, despite the rain?" he asks, eyebrows raised in question.

"Yes. If the soldier is sixteen years old, it is."

"Ah." Blackwall nods. "The Andersfeld lad."

"Yes. He can stay, help the blacksmith, I just don't want him to fight. Will you please talk to him?"

"Aye, I will."

They fall silent, both listening to the rain. She expects Blackwall to smoke some more, but he does not, and lets the rain drip into the pipe.

"Why are you outside is such a weather?" she asks.

Blackwall shrugs. "I like rain."

When she looks up, there is a strange expression on his face.

"Any story to it, ser?"

"Just Blackwall, lassie," he corrects, and briefly smiles at her, and his smile is warm like the dying embers in his pipe. "Well, if you're a Grey Warden who's walking out of the Deep Roads, sticky with darkspawn blood and covered in dust, with no river or lake in sight, and then you step to the surface and it doesn't rain, but it pours, the rain seems a gift from the Maker himself," his voice is quieter than usually, with a slightly softer quality to it. There is something in this memory he is fond of. "It's a beautiful feeling, when it washes away all the grime."

"Yes," she agrees softly. "Yes. I can imagine," she adds, in an afterthought. I remember, she thinks, and Maker, it was beautiful. She smiles at him. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a poet."

He laughs out loud, his trademark laughter which can shake walls, and which cracks the shell she has carefully built around her heart a little more each time. She feels lighter, and her smile widens.

"I'm not a poet, lassie. But I do read, from time to time, and that's bound to leave a trace."

"You are a poet, Blackwall. The way you live..." Her smile gives way to seriousness. "Honour, protecting the innocent. Knightly things, aren't they?"

"Aye, and an ale in a tavern at night, and songs some of which should never be quoted to a lady." He grimaces. "Very knightly." Then he laughs again. "Is this your subtle way of suggesting I'm an old, naive fool?" He is smiling at her, and there are crinkles in the corners of his eyes that appear there whenever he truly laughs, which is often, and the look in his eyes is warm and friendly.

"Not a fool. And I don't think anyone who's spent a few years among the Wardens can be naive." She smiles again. Usually she does not smile half as much as in his presence, and he is bound to notice at some point. "And older, ser, doesn't always mean old." He is not that much older than her, he simply does not know it.

"You look very young," he says, watching her face.

"The silver strands prove me otherwise every morning when I brush my hair," she responds. Only after the words leave her mouth it strikes her that maybe it was not quite a proper image to use, because seeing a woman with her hair down is a thing reserved for... closer acquaintances.

She pauses. And laughs inwardly. How did it ever occur to her to think of him in that context? He is a Warden, and among the Wardens those lines are blurred, or nonexistent. There is a moment when her thoughts come to a pause and then it dawns on her. Ah. Maker, now, of all times? She turns away, so that Blackwall would not see the embarrassed look on her face.

She is falling for him, she realises. A knight, not perfect, but human, just as she is, with his little faults, just as she has hers. It was bound to happen at some point.

"Whatever it is you've recalled just now must be most interesting, lassie," he observes. When she turns back to him, he is smiling at her. "A sovereign for your thoughts?"

"That's quite a price for something so insubstantial." She smiles briefly. "I was thinking about tales and ballads, and poems," she answers. "I grew up on them."

"Meeting the real world hurt, didn't it?" he asks, with a not quite serious kind of sympathy.

If you only knew, she thinks. Aloud, she says: "My parents never tried to convince me the real world looks like ballad stuff. And also told me tales that were more like the world, when I was older. But they took care that some of that idealism would remain in me."

"And does it?" Blackwall asks with a smile.

"I thought not." She pauses. This is hard for her. But... He deserves sincerity, more of it that she can give him now. "The Blight happened. I've lost my family, and escaped. Then I sought out my mother's cousins, in the Free Marches. They accepted me as their youngest daughter, and because I took after my mother, no one ever doubted that. It... It was not really a time out of tales."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees sombrely, then offers a gentle smile. "But I find it hard to believe there hasn't been a single knight, wishing to prove himself to win the lady's favour."

There was, she thinks sorrowfully, there was, and he was my friend, and he died for me. And there was another, but he had a family and his lands to save. But she forces herself to let go of those thoughts, and lets Blackwall's smile soothe her.

"I found out that in life, noble knights usually have a kingdom to save, or their castles, or something else. No time for winning a lady's favour."

Blackwall shakes his head. "Ah, lads these days... Someone should really tell them sometime that the two are not mutually exclusive."

She laughs out loud. That startles him, but then a smile appears on his lips.

"That's a most welcome sound," he says, and his eyes are smiling down at her, too. "You should laugh more, lassie."

"I used to laugh more."

It is a good moment for a question from him, but he says nothing. Only looks at her knowingly, thoughtfully. And then he wipes the frown off his face with another smile.

"Ah, worry not, lassie," he says in a tone suggesting that lack of noble knights in her life is the worst of her troubles. "We'll find you some proper knight yet."

She laughs again. "Why, thank you. That's very kind of you to offer."

"And now let's go back to the keep, before you freeze," he suggests, and offers her his arm, and she accepts. They walk in silence, but his warmth at her side is more comforting than any words could ever be.

Inside the keep, they stop by the door, and she shakes the water off her cloak, then looks at her dripping braid.

"Need help, lassie?" Blackwall asks.

She nods, and undoes her braid. He reaches for her hair and carefully wrings water out of it. It comes naturally, despite the sudden closeness, despite everything. And no reason it should not, she thinks, when he is a Warden. When she reaches up to bind her hair, their hands touch briefly.

"Lass, your hand is freezing!"

"As is the other one, I guess." Her hands are cold most of the time, despite the fingerless gloves she always wears even around the keep to hide the Fade scar.

"Can't allow your hands to freeze, can we?" he asks, smiling, and takes her hand in both of his. He rubs her hand until it becomes warmer, then raises it a little, leans over it and huffs, blowing warm air over her palm.

"Thank you, Blackwall," she says tersely. Her voice is quiet, but has an edge to it, a warning. It is too much, too soon, and she is too confused, and she does not want to make a fool of herself in front of him, when he...

"I apologise, lass." He lets go of her hands and looks at her.

"Don't," she says simply. She stares at him, and there is something in his eyes. A thought strikes her. "What exactly did you have in mind when you mentioned looking for a knight for me, ser?" she asks quietly.

"Nothing you don't want it to mean," he answers, and she can tell he is honest.

She can also finally decipher the look in his eyes. Fondness. Oh. So he... That makes things much easier. And much more complicated. And she cannot allow herself to lose focus. Too much is at stake, now. She blinks, then frowns a little.

"I don't want you to read more into our friendship than is there."

He looks into her eyes, hesitates, but in the end asks. "And is that more than is there, lassie?"

She looks away. "That is more than I can accept now."

"And that is more than it is proper of me to give," he admits. There is an undertone to his voice that sounds like regret. "That doesn't change my friendship, lassie."

"Thank... Thank you, Blackwall."

"No trouble, lass." He reaches into his pocket and presses a golden coin into her hand. "Here. I owed you a sovereign."

She looks up at him, at his smile, and laughs out again, laughs so hard she is shaking, laughs as heartily as she has not done in what seems like ages. She cannot help it, just cannot, not when knowing he does that to make her smile, to chase away her sorrows. He is like rain after the darkness of the Deep Roads.

All the while he watches her, a small smile on his lips, one that almost completely hides under his facial hair, and you need to know where to look to find it. She is somehow embarrassed at the discovery that she already knows.

"A sovereign for your thoughts?" she asks, looking at that smile.

"They're not for sale." Despite having agreed to her earlier words, he touches her cheek gently. "They're for free. But you wouldn't let me say them." He withdraws his hand and cracks a smile. "Stuff of ballads, you know. Fair maidens and the like."

She looks at him, long and thoughtfully. Finally, she gives the coin back to him. "Keep your sovereign, ser."

He looks at her, truly baffled now, and huffs. "And what is that for?"

"Teaching me that rain, sometimes, can be a gift from the Maker." She has just told him not to read too much into their friendship, and yet here she goes. No wonder he is looking so puzzled. "And... After we save the world, perhaps one day I will ask you to help me find a proper knight. Perhaps."

Blackwall takes her hand and bows over it, gracefully turning all the seriousness and awkwardness of the situation into a jest. "Perhaps, m'lady" he says with a smile, "you will find the knight waiting."


	2. Healing Spells

**. . .**

**Healing Spells**

**. . .**

The gown is ridiculous. She is used to elaborate gowns, being a nobleman's daughter trained as a diplomat, but Orlesian fashion is a tad too much, and there are too many layers, laces, embroidery, and she is tries not to sit down because of the damn little beads and stones decorating the material in most inconvenient places. Truth to be told, she is surprised she can move in the blasted thing at all. And the shoes! Suppressing a sigh, she leans on Blackwall a bit more, hoping to relieve her feet a little.

"Tired, lass?" he asks with a chuckle. "The night is still young."

"Try walking in Orlesian shoes, ser, not to mention dancing in them, and then we'll talk," she replies, more harshly than she intended to, irritated.

She has had her share of balls, and is growing tired of it. Still, when another man in clothes as ridiculous as hers asks her for a dance, she smiles sweetly and agrees. As usual, she talks little, listening intently instead, paying attention to every word, asking a polite question now and then; in short, being a perfect listener, because there is no better way of coaxing information out of people than that.

When the dance if over, she slumps onto a bench. Blackwall is at her side in an instant, with a glass of wine, and she nods at him gratefully.

"I'm sorry," she offers, sipping her drink. "It's not your fault."

He smiles at her warmly, a smile that makes her feel cushioned, comfortable. At home.

"It's fine, lassie. I can see you'd rather be far away than doing politics here."

"Still, I shouldn't have." She sighs. "Not when you're the one making this ordeal bearable."

Blackwall laughs quietly, his warm, easy laughter that does weird things to her heart. It feels like a sudden ache in her chest, because it has been so very long since... Happy, she realises, he makes her happy. And she has forgotten how that is supposed to feel, and that is why it hurts, like muscles that have not been used for too long and protest against the effort.

"I can tell some bawdy jokes, but somehow I doubt it would make the experience better," he says.

She smiles. "Probably it wouldn't. How about some amusing stories, ser?"

"Well, if you insist..."

The night is far from over, and soon she will have to get up and dance again, and smile politely at people she would rather have nothing to do with. But for a moment she can sit aside and laugh at Blackwall's tale, and the evening is better for it.

. . .

On the stairs to the keep, she slips and almost falls, but Blackwall catches her just in time and holds her up. She tries to stand on her own, feels a sudden pain in her leg and leans on him, mouthing a vicious curse, because these bloody Orlesian shoes...

"Ah, interesting. I don't think I'm familiar with that one, and that's impressive, if unladylike," Blackwall comments. "Can you walk, lass?"

She shakes her head. "I think I sprained my ankle." She left out a sigh. "I can try to hop to my chambers on one leg, I suppose..."

He leans and scoop her up in his arms, and she stiffens at first, but makes no sound of protest and soon relaxes against him. "Or I can carry you, mhm?"

"I think that's a better option, yes. Thank you for your advice, ser."

He smiles. "Always the diplomat."

"I'm a nobleman's daughter. Diplomacy is part of the trade."

"As is, no doubt, being as well-trained in fighting as you are," he remarks, but does not ask directly. He knows she has not told him the whole truth about her past, that she has told very little of it, in fact, but he never asks, just sometimes, like now, hints that he knows there is more.

"That also comes as part of the trade if you have a brother," she replies, attempting to jest. Only after the words leave her mouth she realises that was another slip, one she should have not made. She is a daughter of House Trevelyan now, and has more than one sibling... They have been kind, to accept her as one of her own, and they are relatives, but not _family_, not for real, and she cannot quite forget that.

"Your ankle hurts that much, lassie?" Blackwall asks, concerned, noticing her wince.

She forces herself to smile. "I'm sure Solas will fix it in no time," she reassures.

"He'd better," Blackwall says, and despite the pain she laughs a little at his remark.

He carries her to her chambers, very careful. He is also holding her a little tighter and closer than necessary, but she says nothing, because it feels... good. It makes her feel cared for, and thus less lonely.

. . .

The healing spell takes only a moment, and instantly her leg stops aching.

"Thank you," she mutters to the elven mage.

"You're welcome," he replies with a smile. "Careful with the leg, though. Don't strain it too much for a day or two. Or at least for a few hours."

"But you've just healed it."

Solas shrugs. "It's just how the spell works. It's like with the cold – magic can deal with serious injuries or illness, but not with the simple cold. The annoyances of life." He smiles briefly. "Reminding us we're alive, though not necessarily in a way we'd like best." He straightens and steps away from the bed. "Very well, I'm leaving you in the Warden's care. Should you need something for pain, send him for me. Goodnight to you both." Solas nods to them and leaves.

"Anything you need, lassie?" Blackwall asks gently.

"I guess getting out of this monstrosity the Orlesians call a gown would be an improvement." She catches his gaze and smiles. "Don't worry, ser, there's nothing tempting in countless layers of petticoats."

He mutters something she does not understand under his breath, but then moves to the bed and helps her with the gown. There is some relief in his eyes when he sees that the petticoats are indeed quite decent, covering her from neck to ankles, and actually quite shapeless without the heavy brocade skits, the embroidered bodice and other additions. There is also, briefly, disappointment, and she does not know whether to laugh or to blush. He is attracted to her, and she knows it, and he knows she is attracted to him, and it does not make things any easier. But his humour does.

"It's like an armour," he remarks with an amused smile.

"No armour I've ever worn has been that complicated," she retorts dryly, and he laughs with that deep, heartfelt laughter which she likes so much.

"You might have a point, lassie. Well, anything else, now that we've dealt with that, I quote, monstrosity?"

"Some food would be nice. And water. And perhaps some mead..."

"Now, now, that's enough requests for a while."

She smiles. "Nothing you can't handle, ser. I have a lot of faith in you." Under the jest there is a deeper meaning to her words, and the way his smile softens tells her he acknowledges that, but he lets the topic drop and she is grateful for it.

"I'll be right back," he just says, before leaving for the kitchens.

. . .

The amount of food he has ordered would be enough for three people, maybe even four, if they ate as little as she does lately, and she stares at the tray.

"I ordered something for myself as well," Blackwall explains.

She shakes her head. "I keep forgetting about that famous Warden appetite."

"It's not that bad. And it has its advantages." He grins. "I can eat twice as much of any delicious food our cooks come up with as any of you."

She laughs a bit, but does not answer, busying herself with the food. They eat in silence, just glancing at each other from time to time, but the laughter is still hanging in the air, almost tangible, and it makes her feel more light-hearted that she has in a very long time.

When they finish, Blackwall takes the empty tray from her and sets it on the table. Then he returns to the bed and puts some blankets over her.

"Anything else you need, lassie?"

No, there is nothing else she needs, but... She does not wish to be left alone. She does not want him to go, not yet, not for another while...

She looks up at him. "I'd be glad of some company. But I shouldn't rob you of your sleep..."

"I'm not especially eager for another meeting with my nightmares, lassie." He intends to sit on the chair, but then stops as she moves over, making him some space beside her.

He does not ask, but simply sits on the bed instead, next to her. Slowly, he reaches out, to embrace her, his gesture somehow hesitant, a query. She shifts, leaning against him, and he puts his arm around her.

"Friendly, not romantic," she says, her voice clear and decisive, but her actions belie her words and she knows it. Her path is a lonely one, and partly it is her own fault for not being able to trust easily, but then that is the reasonable approach for anyone dabbling in politics, and especially for someone hailed as the Herald of Andraste, because virtually everyone would want to use that to further their own goals. But him – she trusts him. And she is tired of being alone.

"Is that so?" he asks quietly. He knows, of course he does. But if she lied about this, he would play along.

Still, he is possibly the last person she would wish to lie to, so instead she simply does not reply. Blackwall does not press for answers. He reaches for the bottle of mead and offers it to her. She takes a sip, passes the bottle to him, he drinks, passes the bottle over. It is quiet, and peaceful, and finally she shifts and rests her head on his shoulder. For a moment, he stays still, then presses a gentle kiss to her hair. She turns, hiding her face against his neck.

He pulls away, touching her chin, lifting her head so that she would look at him. "Are you sure about this, lassie?" he asks softly.

She ponders the reply for a moment, but her actions have already given her away, so there is no point in lying. She does not want to lie to him... and perhaps it is time to tell him the truth, no matter that he already guesses it, that he must know it. And it is time she faced that truth as well.

"I trust you with my life," she says finally, because it is the best explanation she can give. "So whom better to trust with my heart?"

Blackwall watches her closely for a while. "Do you also trust me with your nightmares, lassie?" he asks quietly, his voice serious, solemn even.

She looks away, for it is her first instinct to flee. But... He is her friend, her trusted, loyal friend, a good, honest man, and he cares for her, and it has been so long she has almost forgotten, but perhaps...

Still not looking at him, she begins talking. Of the Blight, of her home, of all those things that have hardened her heart into stone, because he of all deserves to know, for he has heard her beating heart behind the wall and has been patiently trying to get through to her ever since... Always, it seems. He is so much a part of her life that it feels weird to think she has only known him for months. She talks of her parents and brother, and of her friends, of those she lost and those she had to leave behind, and of the real reason she had to seek refuge in Ostwick.

He holds her, not interrupting, letting her talks at her own pace, letting her weep and not brushing the tears off her face, letting them flow freely. It hurts, to relive everything, but the pain is cleansing. When she finishes talking, he says nothing, just holds her to him more closely, and keeps stroking her hair tenderly until she falls asleep.

. . .

She wakes before dawn, feeling warm and safe and much calmer and happier than she has in a very long time. Blackwall is still asleep, snoring softly, his arms around her, his breath tickling her neck. She puts her palm over his. He murmurs something, waking up slowly.

"No nightmares, lassie?" he asks, his voice gruff from sleep.

"No." She squeezes his hand. "Only good dreams."

He laughs at that, his laughter softer than usually, meant only for her. "Want to get up?"

"Not yet."

They stay abed for a while, just enjoying simple closeness as she curls her fingers over his and he presses his lips to her hair. She feels safe and... loved, and that is a marvellous feeling.

"Trying to act like the noble knight you think I am, after having spent the night in the lady's bed I should now ask for her hand in marriage, mhm?" he asks, jesting, laughter echoing in his voice.

When she turns to face him, his eyes are tender but serious. He might have disguised his question as a jest, but he means it, and he is perhaps a little afraid of what her answer would be. They have just agreed to move from friendship to something more... But she knows him, knows his habits and little faults and how he is, and he knows the same about her. They know each other's dreams and nightmares, hopes and fears. So perhaps it is not too soon, after all? Because this is not quite binding, just a question, defining the lines between them, this is just trying to find out what it is they really wish.

"Would you want that, ser?" she asks softly, looking up at him.

"Are you certain you want to hear my answer now, lassie?"

"I... Yes, I think so."

"Then I will ask you again when all the mess is over, what do you think?"

She nods. "That would be wiser, I guess."

"Meanwhile, do you think we could get down and find some breakfast?"

She stares at him, then bursts into laughter. "You, ser, are incorrigible." She smiles. "But I'm not sure if I should strain my ankle that much, it's only just healed, after all, and Solas told me to be cautious."

Blackwall gets up with a little grunt, and smiles back at her. "We certainly wouldn't want to hurt your ankle," he says in a serious voice, but his eyes are merry. He scoops her up in his arms. "I will be very cautious, I promise."

She winds hers arms around his neck. Their foreheads touch and they laugh together, and for a moment the world is perfect.


End file.
